


country bumpin’

by silentwalrus, tinfigs



Series: grapefruit cinematic universe [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Community Overalls, Ed’s tireless quest to spice up his own sex life, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, and his crop dustin’ shot bustin’ shoot blaster, country livin’, no matter the consequences, the rogue farmer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26827675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus/pseuds/silentwalrus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinfigs/pseuds/tinfigs
Summary: Pinako Rockbell is turning 69, which means the entire Resembool-Listenbool County area is putting up the bunting, rolling out the good cheeses, decanting the moonshine, stockpiling fireworks, giving the safe sex talk to the local virgins and bribing the district garrison in preparation for the relevant festivities.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Series: grapefruit cinematic universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956874
Comments: 39
Kudos: 276





	country bumpin’

**Author's Note:**

> I got some country livin’ elrics asks on tumblr, then did some doodles, then meat reblogged with some tags... anyway here we are please enjoy this chadmeat special
> 
> We decided this was set in the same universe as the grapefruit blowjob fic. That said, we aren’t exactly thinking very hard about this.
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU TO GALWEDNESDAY FOR BETA, WHO DID GREAT THINGS TO THIS FERAL COLLABORATION

Pinako Rockbell is turning 69, which means the entire Resembool-Listenbool County area is putting up the bunting, rolling out the good cheeses, decanting the moonshine, stockpiling fireworks, giving the safe sex talk to the local virgins and bribing the district garrison in preparation for the relevant festivities. Ed has been recalled from Central and Al has been extracted from Xing, though not with one hundred percent fidelity given that Mei Chang and what seems to be seven to twelve cousins have tagged along with him. For that matter Ed can’t be said to have gotten away scot free either, given that he’s shown up with Roy firmly in tow. 

Roy had volunteered that maybe his most appropriate contribution would be to send a respectful gift and his best wishes from afar, but Ed had just laughed a lot and kept laughing as he threw Roy’s things into a suitcase and dragged him to the train station. So now - two trains, two buses and a donkey cart ride later - Roy is in Resembool. Ostensibly on vacation. In the Elric-Rockbell household. 

Luckily what seems to be the entire population of Eastern Amestris is in and out of the house at all hours, everyone shouting directions and moving furniture and cooking angrily, so Roy just tries to blend in with the Xingese contingent and pretends he doesn’t speak Amestrisan whenever an unfamiliar broad-shouldered person tries to get him to haul wood or tip cows or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing to the barn that’s producing all that hammering and sawing and swearing. The only respite he gets from the anthill activity is the three or so hours after lunch when everyone goes to nap - Rockbell’s birthday being in mid July, out here so close to the desert the only way to deal with the glaring midday heat is to sleep it away.

Of course, this is the window of opportunity when Ed decides to jam in a quickie. 

Roy would ordinarily be far from opposed, only they don’t have a private room so much as a set of hastily transmuted bunk beds in an even more hastily transmuted shedlike extension barely attached to the back of the main house. They’re sharing this space with all of the Chang cousins, who have an average of eighteen ornate trunks of luggage each and give Ed lots of sidelong glances and discreet blushes and giggles behind their hands that Ed is, thankfully, entirely oblivious to. 

They also think Roy is hilarious, or at least they laugh whenever he opens his mouth. He is choosing to interpret this in the diplomatic fashion. The point is, when Ed starts tugging at Roy’s sleeve in a certain way, Roy feels he has to speak up to protect their cohabitants’ delicate sensibilities. 

“We cannot fucking fuck in there, Ed,” he says. “Or anywhere in this fucking house. I refuse.” 

“It’s fine,” Ed says, like declaring it will make it so. “We’ll just go for a walk.” Ed hasn’t yet learned to wink, but he gives it his best try. Roy resigns himself to his fate.

They’re seen escaping the premises by a gaggle of adolescent cousins, but Ed gives the laughably transparent excuse of wanting to show Roy around town and tows him out through the back door by the sleeve before they can get shanghaied into milking something. With no apparent destination in mind, Ed takes Roy by the hand - less romantically and more to ensure compliance - and leads them out into the fields, encouraging Roy to delight himself with the sights and smells of Resembool in the summertime. Cow shit, sheep shit, pig shit, chicken shit, even goose shit… Resembool has them all. 

“While I have certainly enjoyed becoming an expert on the types of fence posts available in a shepherding economy,” Roy says eventually, “I do have to wonder where in this paradise of poop you plan to find our final destination.” 

“Oh, right there,” Ed says, pointing at a haystack. 

Roy expends a few precious ounces of optimism on imagining that maybe Ed means something  _ beyond _ the haystack, but no. Beyond the haystack is just more field. And shit. And sheep. “Ah,” Roy says blankly. When Ed just keeps looking  _ expectant _ , he adds what should have been an unnecessary follow-up question. “How.”

“The  _ usual  _ way, duh.” 

At least it’s slightly cooler here, Roy discovers as Ed drags him into the shadow cast by his chosen haystack. At least it’s a particularly uniform pile of animal fodder. In this endless field of sheep and fucking  _ nothing _ it probably really is their best bet, and it’s unlikely a hidden aunt is going to spring out from the depths and send them off to set the table. 

“Come on. Siiit. Sit.” Ed plops down and flings off his horrible bootleg Nike slides, beaming up at Roy and patting the dried grass beside him enticingly. “No - wait, hold on.” Ed flops back and hay-angels himself a little hay-cave with room to spare, then hooks the back of Roy's thigh with his automail leg and  _ yanks _ . 

Roy lands with an  _ oof _ and a puff of dust and pollen flying directly into their faces.  _ “Ed.” _

Ed sneezes into Roy's shirt and grins like a demon. “Ain’t this nice?” 

Roy evaluates the situation for niceness. It honestly does seem like a slight step up from just going at it out in the open with direct sunlight beating down on the back of his head, but pieces of hay are already getting stuck to the sweat on his face, and at this point it’s really starting to feel like staying on task with sheep in his peripheral vision and a baked skull would be less of a challenge. Still, Ed’s leg is firmly locked at the back of his knee, and the only thing he wants to do less than fuck in a haystack is  _ debate _ fucking in a haystack, because that means he has to think about the fact that they’re  _ fucking in a haystack _ . He’ll just wipe the scratchy hay bits off on Ed’s sleeve when he isn’t paying attention.

He leans down to kiss Ed, primarily as a cover for the forehead wiping, but things get fairly distracting, as they tend to. He settles on his elbows and lets his weight press in the way Ed likes, staying heavy and still until Ed starts squirming and then grinding and then actively humping, impatient little brat. 

“Something you want?” Roy murmurs into his mouth. 

“Yeah, my, mm, tax refund.” Ed hikes a leg up over Roy’s and wraps his heavy arms around Roy’s neck. “C’mon. Gimme that stimulus package, big mister government man.”

Despite that being one of Ed’s worse coital invitations, Roy sits back up and pats briskly at Ed’s hip, because he saves loving caresses for outfits that don’t look like they were looted from the corpse of Smoky the American Fire Bear. “Take these off, then.”

“‘Kay… Wait.” Ed writhes around for a bit like the larval stage of some kind of denim cryptid before huffing in dissatisfaction.  _ “Ugh.  _ Okay, no. Overalls stay on.” 

“What,” Roy says. 

“Don’t worry, there’s a bum flap. See?” 

Roy does see. Regrettably. “What, exactly, do you imagine us achieving here?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, what do we usually achieve when I’ve got my pants down and you hangin’ around like a homeless guy panhandling for pussy?” Whatever Ed’s doing to rearrange the seat of his overalls is producing some alarming creaking noises. “Ugh. Damn hinges, this shit is all rusted up.” 

“Your bum flap is on  _ hinges?”  _

“Well yeah, these were my mom’s. And I’m pretty sure they were her dad’s. Or someone’s dad’s. They kinda got passed around a lot, ‘s’why they were at Granny’s house and made it when the house burned.” 

Roy cannot believe he is about to fuck this little nightmare in a field and also in what has turned out to be the Resembool community overalls. “Edward. Have these been laundered?  _ Ever?” _

“Uh,  _ yeah,  _ how do you think the hinges got rusty?” Ed does some more arcane groping at his backside before huffing in frustration and visibly giving up. “Some fuck prolly hung them up wet on the line without oiling any of the metal bits first. You know what? Fine. You better appreciate this, bastard.”

Ed claps, whapping his thighs with his palms and dragging them up to his waist in a crackle of alchemical reaction. Roy is left staring down at Ed’s briefs, which are now framed in what Ed probably thinks is an enticing way by crotchless extremely vintage denim overalls. 

“There,” Ed says, satisfied. “Go to town.”

“What about your underwear?”

“What?” Ed cranes up to look down, torso and legs both lifting in the kind of casual display of core strength that keeps Roy grimly getting his money’s worth out of his stupid Equinox membership. “Oh. Hm.” 

Then he raises his legs further, effortlessly folding himself in half in order to shuck his underwear down as far as it’ll go, get his ankles above Roy’s head and then mercilessly drag him back down again by the neck.  _ “Augh,”  _ Roy says, with difficulty. 

“Hm,” Ed says again. “Okay, yeah, this is gonna…” 

_“Ed. My_ _spine.”_

“Yeah, no. It’d work for oral but kinda hard to get your dick in this way.” 

Ed de-accordions himself, loosing Roy to slump onto his side and flex his toes to see if his spinal column is still intact. “Missionary it is,” Ed says decisively, clapping again and reapplying his most charming sartorial adaptation to date to his underwear, which become the middle ring in an unholy denim target circle in which Ed’s genitals are the bullseye. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Roy lies there and tries to recover. “I don’t think I can move.” 

“But I’m naked.” 

“I don’t see how you think that has anything to do with my broken neck. Also,” Roy says, holding up a finger without turning his head, “you are not naked.” 

“I’m naked in the parts that count. And your neck looks fuckin’ fine to me, faker.” 

“You just suplexed me, and not even in a sexy way,” Roy says. “I think I’m owed a little recompense here.” 

“That wasn’t even a suplex.” 

“My cervical spine says otherwise.” 

“I guess I can suck your dick a little,” Ed says, conciliatory. “Come on, get your pants down, chop chop.” 

“How come  _ you  _ get to keep your pants on?” Roy demands, making no move for his fly. 

“Uh, because you’re not the one feet to Jesus in a fucking haystack?”

“The haystack fucking was your idea,” Roy points out. “I’m not responsible for this.” 

“Okay, first you bitch about the overalls, now you’re complaining about the easy access, make up your fuckin’ mind here,” Ed says testily, pawing at Roy’s hip until he rolls onto his back. “God, you’re so high maintenance.” Then he plants his face right into Roy’s lap.

“Who’s feet to Jesus now,” Roy mumbles, mostly preoccupied with blinking hay out of his face and getting his hands into Ed’s hair. It’s hot enough out here that Ed doesn’t bother teasing him with his breath, just unzips and pulls his dick out and licks it into his mouth. Roy stares up at the luridly blue sky and tries to think something beyond  _ mm, wet. _ “Mm.” 

“You ain’t shit to Jesus and ain’t never been in your life,” Ed pulls off to inform him. “Jesus wouldn’t be caught dead with you.”

“We don’t even have Jesus here,” Roy says, feeling like he’s lost track of the conversation; this wouldn’t matter except he feels it has something to do with how Ed’s mouth isn’t on his dick. He vaguely remembers something about Jesus being born in a manger. That might involve haystacks. “But you can have him if you like?” 

“You’re so fucking stupid with your dick out,” Ed says lovingly. “Hey. Gimme a pony.” 

Roy tries to get back up to speed. “I thought you wanted Jesus?”

“Now I want a pony. And an unlimited credit card. And a wedding in space.” 

“What?”

“If you say yes I’ll put your cock back in my mouth.”

Roy frowns at the sky. “You’re extorting me,” he accuses. “Me. A man who has nothing but the shirt on his back and his wits.”

“And when I get your dick out, not even that,” Ed agrees. “Come on, get up here, fuck me.” 

Roy can’t look away from Ed’s wet mouth. “But…” 

“Oh my god, you’re so fucking stupid,” Ed says again, this time in a different tone. “I am  _ offering  _ you the  _ better hole,  _ get to it.”

That is a horrifying enough sentence to briefly project the shriveled remains of Roy’s soul into an alternate universe, where he gets to die single and alone and having never had to experience Ed referring to any body parts as holes at all, let alone ranking them.  _ “Please  _ don’t -“

“I’ll call my body bits whatever I want, you don’t get a say in it. Though we can go back to the pussy euphemism dictionary if you like -”

“I’m going, I’m  _ going.”  _ Ed had spent all of February referring to his genitals solely as the Wet Solstice Surprise - ignoring all arguments about it being nonsexy, nonsensical and also not even in season - and Roy does not want to go back to those dark times. He levers himself to his knees as Ed shuffles onto his back, then stops. “Wait. Did you even bring a condom?”

Ed gives him a look of amazed contempt. “Have you or have you not been vasectomied for the past twenty fucking years?” 

“I am  _ trying,”  _ Roy says with galactic patience, “to  _ gently imply _ that  _ maybe _ you would like to  _ minimize cleanup  _ in this particular situation, given that around here your most sanitary option to wipe ass with would probably be to straddle a sheep.” 

Ed cracks up. “Nah, you get arrested for that. They take that shit seriously round here, you even look like you’re humpin’ a sheep and you can get run outta town. You and your condoms,” he adds fondly, like they’re fucking figurines Roy collects or something. “Just stick it in, we’ll figure out cleanup later.” 

Roy probably should’ve expected this answer, and while he knows he will regret not sticking to his guns in the near future it’s difficult to redirect Ed when he’s got a grip on Roy’s dick. “Fine,” Roy says, going where he’s led, “but don’t blame me when you. Mm.” 

“Uh huh,” Ed says distractedly, squirming again. “That’s - mm. Up a little.”

“Up?”

“Yeah. No, left.”

“Left?”

“Yeah, left - no, back a bit - okay up, up -”

Sometimes Roy wishes penetration weren’t such a goddamn parallel park job, but he can’t deny the results are worth it. Ed’s face goes distant and distinctly self-satisfied, his lip catching between his teeth and his fingers scrunching in the hay before coming up to drag down Roy’s shoulders. He starts unbuttoning Roy’s shirt, which Roy is usually on board with only right now it means more surface area exposed to the elements, most specifically the highly caustic element of hay. He rolls his hips to take his mind off it, which does the dual service of getting Ed to start groping, even if in this area he is generally less about finesse than enthusiasm. Roy’s just glad someone appreciates his goddamn gym drudgery, because he certainly doesn’t. 

They pick up a rhythm. Despite the baking heat and grass stains tangibly forming on his knees, Roy’s starting to enjoy himself. The sky is searingly blue, there’s a breeze ruffling the hair on the back of his neck, and the scent of hay is overpowering almost all of the everpresent nasal bouquet of animal shit. Ed is so clearly happy, hot and wet and tight underneath him, head tipped back and smiling openmouthed as he basks in his haypile; that’s worth a little grass on Roy’s knees. 

Then he sees that Ed’s open mouth is closing. And opening again. And then closing. On the  _ straw. _

“Are you - are you _eating_ _the hay?”_

Ed does not stop reaching with his mouth haywards. “I’m  _ luxuriating.” _

“You’re eating hay.” Roy has to stop thrusting. “Ed. Darling. Listen. I can handle the nature, I can handle the constant, everpresent mountains of shit, but if I wanted to be fucking something in a field while it  _ literally  _ grazes I would have just gone and stuck my dick in one of those sheep over there -“

Ed cracks up, which contracts every muscle in his abdomen and does a lot of vision-whiting things to Roy’s dick. “I told you, they arrest for that shit around here,” Ed gasps, as Roy resumes thrusting without any real commands from his brain. “Y’can’t go sheepfuckin’, ya gotta - gotta stick to the Edfuckin’ -” 

He is so pleased by his own wit that he keeps cackling for five minutes, which also does a lot for Roy’s personal proximity to orgasm. Whoever said laughing during sex is necessary for a healthy relationship was definitely thinking with their penis. They pick up the rhythm again, and it’s easy, Roy finds, to get back to that place of summer bliss; the sun is shining, birds are singing, Ed’s rolling his own hips up to meet him and has totally stopped eating hay. It just might be possible that life is good.

“You know,” Ed says in a thoughtful tone of voice, “I’m pretty sure this was how I was conceived.” 

Roy has to stop thrusting again. “In these  _ godawful overalls?” _

“No, in a haystack, you townie fuck.” Ed squirms. “It’s like. Practically tradition.” 

“In  _ this haystack?”  _

“Oh my god, how long do you think haystacks last?” 

“How the fuck should I know? How do  _ you _ know if this haystack hasn’t been fucked in before, if it’s such a popular pasttime around here -” 

Ed hoots. “Fuck no! I made sure of it. S’why we didn’t just stop at the first pile we saw.” He performs more unholy wiggling and huffs out, “This was pristine, untouched. A virginal stack.”

Roy is about to let out an insane inquiry about the sanctity of haystack fucking before baleing when Ed reaches down and slaps his ass. “Get to it, Mustang. Giddyup. Don’t make me say the y-word.” 

Roy very nearly gasps, and not just because getting smacked by Ed is like getting a love tap from a brick wall. “Don’t you  _ dare _ yeehaw me -”

“Then you better get to yeehawing  _ me,”  _ Ed threatens, then gasps as Roy hitches his hips up and thrusts. “Oh - yeah -“

“Don't  _ verb  _ it,” Roy says sternly, which leads directly to Ed throwing back his head and moaning,  _ “Oh!  _ I’m being  _ yeehawed! Yee _ that haw, yeehaw me  _ hard,  _ oh  _ fuck _ yeah, oh my  _ god -”  _

Roy slaps a free hand over Ed's mouth before he can start the throat singing routine that he  _ knows _ is coming by the way the corners of his eyes and space between his brows crinkle in mischief. Then he bends himself to the task of making Ed too busy to sing anything. Unfortunately this only affects comprehensibility, not volume, and the hand over Ed’s mouth only ever inspires him to try harder. 

Seeing Ed’s face go smug generally inspires Roy pretty hard, too, though, so he ignores the twinges in his lower back to lean back, get his forearm under Ed’s hips and give it what’s colloquially known as the Amestrisan offensive. The pitch of Ed’s moaning goes genuine for a moment, so Roy takes his hand off his mouth to hear it better and also bring it down to Ed’s clit, because this little brat won’t help bring himself off come hell or high water, claiming that the agreement is for Roy to provide the damn orgasms or else. Roy generally claims that he never signed any such agreement, but it’s hard to argue with Ed when he is naked, extremely judgmental and very willing to make his problems Roy’s problems. 

He seems pretty happy with things now, judging by the roughening pitch of his voice and the increasingly goal-oriented motion of his body. They hit their stride once more, and it looks like Ed’s finally invested enough to see it through this time without distractions. Roy commits himself to supporting this endeavor and also Ed’s ass, because between the sixty pound metal leg and two hundred pound all-Amestrisan frame he’s a one man triathlon. 

Somewhere between the impassioned noisemaking and Ed’s eyebrows starting to tilt up in the middle Roy hears a vague shouting that isn't coming from either of them. He elects to tune it out in favor of grinding down on Ed and watching his face contort in the way Roy likes. Then the shouting briefly raises in volume - Roy’s starting to think it maybe isn’t just some shepherd singing sweet nothings to their sheep - only  _ sweet pissing christ _ that is a motherfucking  _ gunshot _ that just flew through the top of the haystack - and the spike of  _ what the fuck _ goes right to Roy’s dick and he's still thrusting and - oh, that’s, that is definitely an orgasm punching through his nervous system as freshly murdered hay rains down from above. 

Judging by the vicegrip on his cock and a whine like a strangled kazoo right below him, he is not alone in having the come spooked out of him. Ed’s fingers are locked in a death grip on Roy’s hips. They're both giving the other their best five star drowning fish impression. The shouting is getting closer but god help him if Roy can understand a fucking word. He used to think Ed could really yokel it up if he put his well-muscled back into it, but this - farmer? Cowboy? Enraged hill person? - is so  _ goddamn pissed _ he may as well be screeching in tongues from the bottom of a ravine. 

Then another shotgun blast clears some hay off the top of the stack. The rest of Roy's brain shudders awake from its orgasmic haze all at once, and he understands one thing and one thing only: abort. He pulls out, wobbles off Ed and back onto his ass, and the twinge that zips up his abused spine makes him want to shriek, just a little. Ed's wobbling too, but he's already got his violently red off-brand slippers on and the fact that he never took his goddamn timeshare overalls off means he can just pop up and sprint off with no more problems than some mild chafing. Even if they survive this, Roy is never going to admit that keeping the overalls on was a good idea.

Ignoring the twinge turned throbbing stab, Roy burns up the last of his youth in an undignified flail that gets him off the ground and hauling up his pants, because Ed is already fifty yards away and accelerating. Then the pause in garbled hick rage on the other fucking side of the goddamn haystack gives way to sounds of reloading, and Roy suddenly discovers that he still has plenty of youth juice, actually, and bolts. 

He's steadily gaining on Ed, who clearly isn’t going to slow down for him, the little shit. Roy’s open shirt is flapping angrily on his back. By some miracle he is surely undeserving of, even without his belt - lost now to the warbling hell farmer and his very fucked-in haystack - he manages to grab the slacks sliding down his skinny ass before they have a chance to actually trip and kill him.

_ Flame Alchemist assassinated by designer pants in middle of field of shit and sheep _ passes through his mind while he narrowly avoids the cow pies sprinkled about like little crappy landmines. A third shot fires off behind them, and Ed snaps his head back, assumedly to assure Roy's center mass hadn't just been turned into a three ring circus. Whatever he sees sends his eyes wide and slows him down just enough to where they can hear each other over the still wildly ululating rural shock trooper, which has Roy risking a glance down to check that he hasn’t been perforated. 

But Ed, he realizes, is  _ cackling.  _

_ “ _ Hey!  _ Relax Roy! _ I  _ know _ this guy!”

Of course he does. _ “Of course you do!” _

“Since  _ diapers! _ ” 

“So tell him to recall - ” Roy sucks a lovely lungful of hot fertile air and  _ regrets _ “ - recall your lifelong bond and  _ stop shooting at us!” _

“It’s fine! The shotgun’s just fulla salt probably!” 

_ “Probably?”  _

“His guns're totally homemade too! Got nothin' to fear 'sides bruising!” Ed's head whips over his shoulder again, what remains of his straw-filled braid whacking him in the cheek. “Probably!” He laughs again and picks up his pace, leaping clear over some random fucking farm equipment instead of veering around the side like a normal fucking human. 

Then Ed's hyena laughter cuts off and switches gears to an agonized wail. “ROY! YOUR FUCKING  _ GOOP - ” _

“My  _ what! _ ”

“Your  _ splooge _ \- you fucking  _ slimed  _ me!”

It's Roy's turn to laugh like a demon, once he runs the yelling through the Ed-to-people filter and realizes: he fucking  _ told  _ Ed they should’ve used a condom, and now his crotchless antique denims are sowing their combined wild oats all over this godforsaken fuckpasture. “I told you!” Roy yells, mostly because he just caught sight of Ed’s own footwear and found them annoyingly clean of animal shit. “I  _ told  _ you, I said - ”

“Why didn’t you goddamn _ vacuum seal your yogurt slinger?” _

“Why didn’t  _ I -?” _

“You  _ ruined  _ these overalls!”

“You - !” Roy chokes on his spit before he can complete the thought, and redirects the urge to skip over and trip Ed into the dirt by switching the stranglehold on his pants to the other hand. “I didn’t do  _ shit _ to those overalls that hadn’t been done already! You put a  _ hole  _ in them where the seat should be -“

“For  _ you,  _ bastard! For  _ us!” _

_ “There is no us,”  _ Roy swears, which he recognizes is futile even as he yells it given he’s said it to Ed approximately fifty to five hundred times before. 

“Oh  _ yeah?”  _ Ed’s own yelling starts to doppler as he picks up speed again. “Find your way outta this field yourself then,  _ boyfriend!” _

Roy can feel hay in his socks. He can feel hay in his  _ ass crack.  _ He's definitely already stepped in animal shit. If he dies like this he's going to come back to life just to kill Ed for real, but given that Ed seems to have forgotten that since they are on a wide open plain - totally featureless save for them, the sheep and the distant but still-bellowing farm sniper - Roy can just follow his damn braid out of this field. And then  _ divorce  _ him, with his  _ dick.  _

He hikes his pants up far enough to give himself a wedgie and picks up speed. If he catches Ed before he makes it back to the house, he can push him into the duck pond. 

**Author's Note:**

> ed was resigned to everyone knowing by the time they got back to the house and being the town shame for the next 20 years (again) only it turned out al and mei got caught fucking on the roof and totally stole his spotlight


End file.
